


Temporal Discordance

by Pat_Jacquerie (Pat_Nussman)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Episode: s04e07 Assassin, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 08:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pat_Nussman/pseuds/Pat_Jacquerie
Summary: Pat finds herself in the B7 universe as the slave auction in "Assassin" is about to begin. But once she buys Avon, what will she do with him?





	Temporal Discordance

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This is a rather silly piece, besides being a blatant and deliberate Mary Sue, but I'm rather attached to it anyway, and some other people have been so indulgent as to say they enjoyed it, so I thought I'd toss it in. Some friends and I have written scenes to a sequel, but whether it'll ever get finished, I cannot say….
> 
> July, 1987
> 
> Originally published in _More Naughty Bits_

 Jacqueline was at a filksing. Susan was reading _Shadowplay_ to a circle of somewhat insomniac admirers. Liz had consumed a considerable amount of vodka. And Pat was somnolent.

Life went on as usual.

The elevator at the Oak Brook Hyatt was deserted, a rarity in the midst of Scorpio. But admittedly the four fans had stayed up to an incredibly late hour, even for fans, indulging in talk previously possible only in six-page-plus letters and expensive long distance phone calls--most of which talk concerned the manifold charms of an unfortunately fictional computer expert.

The two remaining members of the group kept up the conversation nobly, despite the fact that their own geographical proximity in Baltimore and Washington made the dialogue more of a rerun than an original performance.

"Cheekbones," Pat commented cryptically, making her contribution on the behalf of their absent Seattle colleague.

"Smells nice," contributed Liz, staring into the dregs of her vodka bottle. Well, actually, it was Avon's alter ego who smelled nice, but the hour was too advanced for quibbles.

Pat certainly made none. "Hands," she stated unequivocally. Her own, less shapely member curled loosely around a glass of mostly departed white wine. That, and the lateness of the hour, accounted for her position on the elevator floor, but her contributions to the discussion were no less enthusiastic for that.

"Everything," concluded Liz, a trifle morosely. The absence of Kerr Avon's double at the con festivities gave a certain funeral aura to their discourse, however beneficial his current pursuit might be to the Darrow exchequer.

"Yeah." Pat tilted precariously backward, about to turn her seated position into a prone one. "Don't you wish he were real? And here?" Not that Avon would make the most comfortable of companions. But he would keep life interesting. 

A sigh of agreement met this sentiment. Silence reigned as Liz contemplated the bottom of her vodka bottle.

Finally, Pat stirred, prompted by the discomfort of the elevator floor to consider the practicalities of their situation. "Are we going anywhere?" 

Liz stood up, somewhat unsteadily, to contemplate the unlit vista of elevator buttons. "I don't think so. Where do you want to go?"

Pat sank back into her corner. "London. Xenon Base. The flight deck. Your choice." She finished off the wine and tried to find a comfortable position on the carpet.

"How about the 77th floor?"

"There is no 77th floor in this hotel."

Vodka could make Liz believe in anything. "Nonsense. Here's the button." Recklessly, she pushed it.

The elevator rushed upward at a velocity that made a British Airways Concorde seem absolutely tame. Or a space shuttle, come to that. Pat's glass ended upside down on the floor. Atop Liz's vodka bottle.

"What the hell?" With difficulty, Pat achieved an upright position.

The elevator pinged, its overhead readout declaring them to be on the 77th floor. 

Liz grinned as the elevator doors swished open. "You were saying?"

But it was not, in fact, the 77th floor or anywhere else on the grounds of the Oak Brook Hyatt, unless the management had reproduced one of the bleakest landscapes known to man.

A brisk, dry wind blew over an uninspiring vista of scrub grass and sand. A few feet to their left, a line of seated men who looked vaguely like extras from _Jesus Christ, Superstar_ stared expectantly into middle space, while further away two women sat chatting and sipping drinks in the shelter of a brightly-colored awning. They likewise appeared to be expecting interesting revelations to appear at stage center.

And, somehow, it all seemed very familiar.

Then two figures were led forth to lend interest to the empty stretch of landscape. Pat ignored the old man, fixating instantly on the figure dressed in the slightly gaudy elegance of black and silver. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and possessed the cheekbones, hands, shoulders, and other assorted body parts that, while they might not have launched a thousand ships, had certainly fired the imaginations of more than a thousand fans of the female persuasion.

" _Assassin_ ," Pat hissed.

Liz ducked, looking anxiously around her for projectile weapons.

"No. I mean the episode. "'Assassin'." A predatory gleam appeared in the taller woman's light brown eyes.

Her companion straightened. "You mean, they're about to--"

"Auction Kerr Avon off to the highest bidder." Pat stood absolutely still, attempting to absorb the concept into the uttermost center of her being. "Nirvana. Nirvana in front of our very eyes."

"But you would want Avon as a _slave_ ," Liz opined piously.

Pat looked torn. Felt torn. Naturally, she didn't want Avon to be a slave. Unless, of course, he was _her_... Swiftly, she banished the thought as unworthy. Besides which, the Avon portrayed on the BBC wouldn't make a particularly safe slave. And the man now before them didn't appear one particle more amenable than the broadcast version.

But... "We'd just keep him for a little while. Surely, he'd feel obligated if we rescued him from Servalan and...and..." She left the rest of the thought delicately unvoiced, such as the particular form which Avon's gratitude might take. They were both fully adult females, after all, and Liz had never been particularly slow on the uptake.

The glances the two women exchanged were that of perfect accord.

"The problem is, what would we use for money?" Liz became all practicality, the effects of Russia's best--or more probably worst--magically dissipated by the beneficial effects of lust. "We don't have the local currency on us and I expect they don't take Master Card and Visa. Or even American Express."

"But there must be--" Frustrated, Pat stared at the mirage standing with typical Avonic defiance only meters away. To be in the same universe as he was about to be auctioned off like some fan painting in an art show... Desperation lent her mental powers unusual sharpness. "Wait. I think I have an idea. You hold the elevator door."

Gathering together her courage, Pat strode over to the shaded space where the two women sat. Carefully not looking at Servalan, lest she lose what little chutzpa she currently she currently possessed, she addressed the auction mistress. What was her name? Oh, right. "Verlis, we are strangers here and not familiar with your currency. How much in gold does a vem equal?"

"You wish to bid?"

__

_You'd better believe it._ "Yes, lady." She could feel Servalan's venomous gaze boring holes through her left shoulderblade. "I assume gold would be an acceptable currency?" 

The woman's expansive smile showed an impressive array of back teeth. "You assume correctly. Five hundred vems equals one ounce of gold."

Pat jogged back to the temporal elevator, imparting the relevant data to her friend.

Liz looked confused. "But Servalan paid only 2,000 vems for Avon in the program. That makes him dirt cheap, comparatively speaking. What is the current price of gold? Surely under five hundred dollars?"

" _Our_ current price, yes. But if you'll recall that in _Gold_..."

It didn't take Liz long to add two and two. "All the gold in the galaxy had been mined out, except on Zerok. Which means the current price in this universe..."

"...Must be enormous. Servalan did pay a fortune for Avon. But we wouldn't have to." Pat began to dig frantically through her purse. "How much leeway do you have on your plastic?"

"But it's the middle of the night in Chicago. How would we...?" Liz began to grin wickedly, answering her own question. "Pawn shops. There are bound to be all-night pawn shops somewhere in Chicago."

Pat seized upon the idea as if embracing salvation. "Find one that deals in gold coins and buy as many as you can." She started to drag out her various credit cards then, thinking better of it, simply handed over the whole wallet. So she'd never eat again. Big deal.

A defiant gleam entered Liz's eye. "Wait a minute. Why are we assuming that I'll go and you'll stay with--" She threw an eloquent glance toward the man dominating center stage."

Pat stepped forward, in the toe-to-toe position often favored by Del Tarrant. "Because I'm taller?" She tried to sound suitably assertive.

Liz grinned ferally. "But I'm meaner."

Pat had to grant the point. "Because I grovel better?" She rearranged her expression into a desperate-appealing expression that resembled nothing so much as a woebegone mongrel puppy.

"Well..." Liz shuffled her feet indecisively. "I probably would find the pawn shops faster." She leveled an admonitory finger at Pat's nose. "But when I get back, it's equal time. Understood?"

Pat nodded eagerly, her fingers crossed behind her back. Liz was a good friend, but all was fair in love and war--and Avon qualified as more than a bit of both. But no need to go into that just now.

"All right, then." Liz turned back to the temporal elevator, then half-back again. "Pat, there's no telling how stable this thing is." She hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Good question. As devoted to Avon as Pat might be, there was no denying that the B7 universe, particularly at this precise point in the timeline, was an unpleasant place to contemplate spending eternity in. "I'll take the chance. Just hurry."

Pat felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach as the elevator doors closed on Liz's form. But she had no time to contemplate the sensation.

The auction had begun.

Uneasily, Pat took a standing position beside the oddly-dressed assortment of extras who were, just as in the program, receiving electronic instructions from their supposedly lascivious employers.

Not that she could cavil on that particular subject.

Instead, she concentrated on finding a way to slow down the bidding. Not only did she need to give Liz a start on her mission, she wanted to get a handle on this universe's auction etiquette. For example, she didn't suppose she could call for a runner.

"Auctioneer." The unattractive specimen in the primitive costuming raised his head inquiringly. "Could I examine the merchandise?"

After directing a questioning glance at Verlis, he motioned her forward. Once more, Pat was uncomfortably aware of Servalan's distinctly unfriendly gaze, this time square on her undefended back. After a moment, however, she became completely oblivious to the hostile presence behind her as inspection of the "merchandise" claimed her total attention.

Gunsar had been right in "Power." Avon did look and smell like a man. Most decidedly so. His hair looked soft, his shoulders anything but, and his hands...Pat did so appreciate elegant hands on a man. Closer inspection only made her determination more fierce. She had to outbid Servalan.

"Satisfied?" inquired the auctioneer.

"Not yet," Pat muttered. Avon evidently caught that, for he shot her a swift, cynical glance. Gods, the man had presence.

Somehow, she found herself back to the line of bidders. But her knees felt more than a little weak.

That didn't prevent her from plunging right into the auction, altering her usual phraseology slightly to match the apparent local custom: "Patricia of Baltimore bids 200 vems."

The auctioneer's assistant considerately brought her a chair. Apparently, two hundred vems entitled her to seating. And Pat rather thought she needed to sit down. Bidding against Servalan...

On the other hand, was she truly bidding against Servalan? Madame President Servalan had possessed all the resources the Federation could provide--an exchequer her new identity as Sleer lacked. Her behavior in "Gold" provided confirmation enough for that. Commissioner Sleer had a cash flow problem, a fact that Patricia of Baltimore intended to use to her own full advantage. 

The bidding fever mounted. She began to snap out bids in that firm, precise voice that had convinced more than one fellow fan that Pat Jacquerie meant business and it was high time to retire from the contest.

"Two thousand vems." Servalan obviously thought she had played the winning hand. In this universe, four ounces of gold must equal incredible credits. And it was plenty enough dollars to Patricia of Baltimore, but if she had to owe Master Card for the rest of her natural existence, she'd top Servalan's bid.

"Three thousand vems."

Servalan's eyes widened. She hesitated. "Three thousand, five hundred."

Pat smiled grimly. Servalan had stepped down the pace of bidding, a sure sign of weakness. Carefully, Pat stood, then stepped up upon her chair, receiving the full attention of everyone present. A former docent, she could make her voice clear and carrying when she wanted. She did so now. "Five thousand vems."

Silence cloaked the assemblage. Even Avon, Pat noted, looked slightly impressed. And more than a bit smug.

"Any advance on five thousand?" the auctioneer managed at last.

Servalan glared laser holes into Patricia of Baltimore. Pat didn't care. She was enjoying the heady feeling of triumph that immediately follows the auction victory, but far precedes the actual moment of paying up. She smiled seraphically at Servalan and stepped off her chair with the hint of a swagger. "Mine, I think." She strolled toward Avon.

She was almost there when Servalan called out, "Guards!"

Then two things occurred which were to change the course of fourth series history: Avon, still evidently bemused by the high price he had fetched, hesitated fractionally in retrieving his bracelet from the old man, and Pat, furious at seeing her hard-won prize about to be snatched, forgot the exigencies of plotline--not to mention her own personal safety--and rushed the guards.

Pat knew nothing of fighting, but she had a perfectly adequate knowledge of male anatomy. She kicked a guard in the groin and snatched his gun. Beside her, Avon aimed for less delicate areas, but achieved similarly useful results. Together, they began laying waste to the remainder of Verlis' cannon fodder. Avon was by far the better shot, but while Pat was no Soolin, she had practiced with a pistol in younger days. And at this range, it was a bit difficult to miss.

They were aided by the fact that Verlis apparently preferred cold cash to damaged merchandise and it was difficult for her guards to hit Pat without punching inconvenient holes through Avon. Pat and Avon, naturally, felt no similar compunctions and their opponents dropped with gratifying rapidity.

"Score one for our side," Pat said breathlessly. "Not too bad for fourth series."

Then she cursed as another line of ill-dressed pirates trotted out, effectively cutting them off from the old man with the one teleport bracelet. "Damn. Doesn't anything go right in fourth series?"

As if in reply, the old man dissolved into a BBC teleport effect. "No," she answered herself, "I suppose it doesn't."

Beside her, Avon laughed, another sign of the extreme unpleasantness of their situation. His tone spoke volumes about life's more interesting ironies.

However, Pat was in no mood for nihilistic philosophy. "Your people will come down when they realize..."

"Yes," Avon gestured with his captured gun. "But in the meantime..."

The shooting became marginally more enthusiastic on the opposite side. Perhaps Servalan had offered Verlis cash for dead or alive. "Perhaps a strategic retreat would be in order?"

"My thoughts precisely."

They made tracks.

*

Pat wasn't sure how Avon managed to elude the bloodthirsty hordes bent on their capture, but she wasn't complaining. Except about the climate, which was as pitilessly hot and sun-scorched as one could imagine. She'd doubtless be sunburned by morning. That is, if they managed to live through the remainder of the afternoon.

Avon stared thoughtfully at the cloudless sky. "Servalan would have taken her ship after _Scorpio_. Which means Tarrant will have left orbit."

"So we're stranded." More good news.

"Temporarily."

Very temporarily. If Tarrant wanted to retain his whole skin. Pat followed Avon around an outcropping of rock to a niche between two stony rises in land, hardly qualifying as hills. But they offered concealment and even a modicum of comparative coolness. Pat put down her weapon, loosening the neck of her shirt to allow a hint of breeze to cool her sweat-soaked skin.

It was then that the conversation turned awkward. Avon turned his gun on her.

"You appear to know me." His manner, unfortunately, could be termed neither casual nor conversational.

Not a promising beginning. Pat doubted she could come up with a convincing explanation of her instant recognition of Avon's ship and pilot, not to mention her too-obvious familiarity with his own fighting style and general manner of doing business. She had to admit it was just a trifle suspicious.

She felt no inclination to become just another Kerr Avon kill statistic. However, the "well..." that rose most naturally to her lips seemed no strong inducement to allow her continued existence.

"Would it have any connection with the mysterious conveyance you and your companion arrived in?"

Better. Curiosity was Avon's weak point, if the man could be said to possess such a thing. "You noticed."

"It would have been difficult to miss."

"Everyone else seemed to."

Avon moved the gun slightly askew and smiled. "I am not, you may have noticed, everyone else."

Pat certainly had noticed that. And, if she were very cautious, she might even live to tell the tale. She recited to herself the Kerr Avon rules of survival: Make no sudden moves, present no threat, look harmless. Keeping him talking might not be a bad idea, though he seemed inclined to that by himself.

"You appear to own a temporal displacement device."

Um. It could've been a Vegematic for all Pat knew, her education having leaned more toward the journalistic than the scientific. She decided that trying to bluff Avon would be an emphatically bad idea. "You probably know more about it than I. We just happened on it."

"Interesting. And your knowledge of me?"

Touchy. And complicated to explain. Pat searched her mind for a comparison. "A sort of viscast program. A work of fiction."

She expected skepticism, but not what she got.

"Is it popular?"

Pat had to smile. The inquiry was so very Avon, touching that barely-submerged streak of vanity. "Very. You particularly."

Avon digested that in silence. Apparently, he was accustomed to outrageously unbelievable situations. He certainly appeared to be taking this one in his stride--either he believed her story or considered her out-and-out mad. Pat couldn't decide which and, so long as he allowed her to continue living, didn't much care.

After a moment, he gestured to a rock with his weapon. "Would you care to sit down?"

"Would you care to put down your gun?" Pat couldn't believe her own temerity. However, the sight of Avon pointing a gun at her midsection, while certainly interesting and attractive, also proved even more unnerving than anticipated. And her expectations had been high.

Avon hesitated, then set aside the gun, lowering himself beside her. She hardly knew whether to be pleased or insulted by his estimate of her danger potential. On the other hand, she had to admit that he was considerably stronger than she, and so obviously had little cause for worry, so long as she wasn't near a firearm. And the guns, she noted, were quite out of her reach.

"Why did you bid on me? Because of your viscast?"

Pat became more uncomfortable still, in a completely different sense than before. "I suppose I thought you'd be rather decorative. That's all." She sounded unconvincing, even to herself, but Avon appeared more amused than suspicious. Perhaps he really did believe her story, if only because it was too incredible to be fabricated.

"And useful?" he prompted.

Had someone given the man a script? Pat examined the sand beyond her outstretched legs, unwilling to meet those knowing dark eyes. "That, too."

"Well, now." Strong, elegant fingers turned her head to meet the brilliance of his smile. Pat recognized that smile from "Sand." And despite its innate self-satisfied chauvinism, it turned her insides to fire and melted ice. "Since it appears we have a few hours to wait, let us test out that theory. Besides, I would hate to see your investment wasted."

She had to agree with that sentiment.

After a moment, Avon raised his head. "You remind me of someone." His voice was as level as before, but through it, Pat sensed a thread of sadness, the slightest touch of pain.

__

_Oh._ Pat stilled, remembering what had happened just at the beginning of fourth series. Just an episode of a television series, an incident resulting from an actress wishing to leave the program. Or so she had thought.

She couldn't help but feel pleased by the comparison. Still...she felt for him. Here was not the hardened killer, the sensual swagger behind the leveled gun. Here was the man of deeply-buried passion, a man whose endurance had been stretched to the breaking point by pain piled upon pain. She touched his cheek. "Someone else too thin?"

"Someone else too thin," Avon agreed quietly. And kissed her again.

*

The sun was low on the horizon and _Scorpio_ still had not appeared. Avon sat up against a rock, jacket thrown loosely about his shoulders, contemplating the empty stretch of wasteland. No doubt devising ways to kill Tarrant. New and inventive methodology.

Pat left him to it. She felt too content to join him in the pursuit. In fact, if Tarrant left them here for several days, she wouldn't mind terribly. If they could find food and water. Perhaps back at that...

Suddenly, Pat leapt to her feet, pleasant lassitude unpleasantly dissipated by belated recollection. "Liz!"

"What?" Avon turned his gaze from the more distant prospect to regard her quizzically.

"My friend. She'll have returned."

"Then she'll have walked straight into Servalan's arms." He didn't appear particularly eager to jump up and mount a rescue party, but then she hadn't expected that. Lovemaking, in Pat's experience, rarely led to complete personality reversal.

"I know." She stretched out her hand. "I've got to go back. Please give me a gun." It wasn't likely, she thought, but she had to try.

"If you return, you'll walk into that same trap."

"I know. Please, Avon." She was trying her best to be brave and wasn't accustomed to the exercise. But she couldn't leave Liz to Servalan's non-existent mercies. The very thought... She shivered at the memory of that venomous gaze.

"You're being emotional, not rational."

"I know." She began to feel like a Top Ten record, one with only a single refrain. Do-wop. Do-wop. "If you'll just give me a gun."

"Emotion destroys." Avon was heavily into philosophy today. Pat found herself appreciating it less and less.

"Avon, will you just give me the damned gun!"

Do-wop.

"Give me a reason why." He still had not moved, but rather regarded her with an almost academic interest, as if she were some exotic animal he had not yet catalogued.

"Because..." Pat ran her tongue over dry lips, then suddenly heard the voice of reason issue from her mouth. Avon's kind of reason. "Because Liz is carrying approximately 5,000 vems worth of gold. You don't think I would have bid without the money, do you?" 

She hoped he didn't want to explore that question too thoroughly.

"That much." Avon stood, leisurely retrieving both guns and the remainder of his clothing. "Now that does seem an adequate reason. I'll come with you."

Life was so simple if only one thought as Avon did. It was achieving that thought process that was the difficult bit.

*

After all the drama, their arrival at the auction mistress' camp proved something of an anticlimax. No Servalan was to be seen. Nor even Verlis or her piratical employees. The camp, however, was not entirely deserted.

Liz had arrived. So had Del Tarrant.

Neither party looked at all pleased with the other's presence. Tarrant, in fact, had his weapon leveled at a decidedly unimpressed Liz, who was clutching a heavy-looking satchel to her bosom and, if Pat were any judge, contemplating a far-from-amorous attack upon the hapless pilot's kneecaps.

Once more, Avon saved the day. "Put down that gun, Tarrant. You look ridiculous."

Avon didn't mention his own weapons. Apparently, he never looked ridiculous, no matter how many guns he leveled at whom. "What's happened here?"

Tarrant reholstered his weapon with something like reluctance, keeping a wary eye on Liz. If he had known Liz's emotions concerning his character, he'd have been even more cautious. At times, ignorance truly could be bliss.

"I'm not sure." He unwound an extra teleport bracelet from around his wrist, handing it to Avon. "We took an evasion course after Servalan's ship came for us, and when we returned--" He shrugged. "As you see."

"Maybe Servalan lost her temper and everyone else cleared out," Pat suggested. "I know I would."

"Your viscast again?" Avon fastened the bracelet with a single elegant gesture, never letting go the guns. It was quite a feat, Pat decided.

She nodded.

"Sound psychology, for a viscast." Avon pivoted on one heel, taking a survey of the deserted encampment. "Your analysis appears correct."

"In that case, isn't it time we took our leave? There's still Cancer to be dealt with, in case it's slipped your mind." Impatience edged Tarrant's voice. Interesting how true the characterizations seemed to run.

"Not yet." Avon strolled toward the elevator, his gait deceptively casual. "First, I'd like to examine this temporal device. And learn about Chicago."

He smiled brilliantly at Liz, who visibly started at the sight of a sun going nova before her very eyes. "I understand there's quite a lot of gold there."

*

Now the camp was truly deserted, save for herself and Avon, Tarrant having overcome his distrust of Liz sufficiently to offer her a tour of _Scorpio_. In fact, Pat rather fancied...

"Tarrant appears to be developing an adolescent crush on your friend."

Pat choked. "You noticed." And when Liz noticed, there would be an explosion surely felt fully a thousand spacials away. Oh, well. Perhaps Dayna and Soolin would prevent Liz from inflicting grave bodily harm on their lanky pilot. And Vila could come up with some alcoholic treatment when Liz inevitably succumbed to a fit of apoplexy.

Pat almost wished she could be there to see it. Almost.

She wandered over to where Avon was delicately probing the circuitry on the temporal elevator in an attempt to determine its mode of function. He had, she noticed, holstered his gun. And even turned his back upon her. Partially.

Progress.

"Avon?" She hunkered down beside him, half-tempted to touch the broad expanse of muscled shoulders now so temptingly near. But no. She had to talk to him. She might not have this opportunity again.

"Yes?" He carried on with his work. He seemed not entirely oblivious to the tentative questioning note in her voice, but not particularly responsive to it, either. _Avon at work. Do not disturb._

__

__

Pat hesitated. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to bring up the subject, at any rate. She wasn't sure she should bring up the subject. With just a few words, she could alter the future radically.

Her interference to date wouldn't greatly change the "Assassin" plotline. Cancer, she reasoned, would wait for Avon as long as it took for Avon to arrive and the results, while certainly far from pleasant, would in the long run not prove fatal. She could and would remain silent about that.

But the other-- There her silence could indeed prove fatal. Yet to tamper with the future...

And yet, she told herself stubbornly, how could it possibly turn out worse, whatever she did? A scenario which included killing his friend by mistake, seeing his entire crew laid to waste, and facing down the worst possible of no-win situations could hardly be topped so far as disaster went. And if there were any chance she could make it come out right...

"Avon, I've got to tell you something." Talking to his back was not conducive to the easy flow of conversation, but Pat persisted. "You're going to end up at a planet called Gauda Prime, meet someone you once knew. Whatever happens, whatever you're told about him, don't shoot."

That caught his attention. He half rolled from the bowels of the machinery, staring up at her enigmatically. "What?"

"You heard me. I want you to promise, Avon, not to shoot him." He hated to give his word, Pat knew, but once he did...he kept it. Kept it though all hell should stand between him and the given promise. He'd proven that at Star One. And with Anna. "Please, Avon. Promise."

He put aside the probe. "Why should I?"

Back to that again. And with her fresh out of bribes. "I've helped you. You'll get enough gold in Chicago to keep Xenon operational indefinitely. Surely that's worth a promise."

The man looked regrettably unconvinced.

"Look, Avon, I'm not calling for a permanent farewell to arms. All I'm asking is that you don't shoot the guy. Wait for his explanation. You won't regret it."

The deep set eyes probed her face for a short eternity. Slowly, he nodded. "Very well. I give you my word."

Pat breathed again. "And watch out for Federation traps."

His smile flashed briefly through the deepening gloom. "Always."

Not good enough. "Try _harder_."

"Very well." He pulled himself completely from beneath the machinery, his eyes intent on her face. "I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate."

"Avon, I shouldn't have told you this much."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Time paradoxes. Yes, it is a problem." A hint of a genuine smile edged his lips. "I suspect," he commented, "that I may live to be grateful for your warning."

"At least you may live," she murmured to herself. She knew that if Avon's actions were reflected in the program tapes, that the entire fifth season novel she and Jacqueline were constructing had just become an extremely bizarre alternative. But she damned well didn't care. After all, the entire purpose of the exercise was to make things come out right...for him.

"Are you finished with the elevator?" She hastened to change the subject before she became totally maudlin, a state she strongly suspected that Avon would regard with disfavor.

"Yes. I've deciphered the basic principles. With Orac's help, that should suffice."

"Then I guess this is goodbye." She held out her hand. Damn, she didn't want to leave him. But he'd hardly fit into the lifestyle of suburban Baltimore and she'd only be a liability in his universe.

Avon's face gentled. "Oh, I think we can do better than a handshake."

And they did. Do much better.

*

Liz teleported down into the elevator, looking more than slightly disgruntled. Pat feared she wasn't helping matters. She could feel herself glowing with the radiance of a high-intensity lamp.

"So, was it worth the price?" the other woman inquired. No, Liz didn't look happy in the least. Pat wondered, in a pleasantly detached way, if Tarrant had actually chased her friend around the flight deck. It would have been a bit public, but one never knew.

"What price?" She indicated the satchel clasped in Liz's arms. "We still have the gold, remember?"

"That's true." Just the same, Liz seemed discontented and Pat couldn't really blame her. Not that Pat particularly wanted to share, but a deal was, after all, a deal.

"We'll have company tomorrow," Pat said conversationally. "Avon's figured out the mechanism of the portal and it'll hold a few more days. Long enough for Vila to explore Chicago's finer banks and coin shops, with Soolin as backup." She gazed innocently at the overhead. "Avon will be at the Hyatt to monitor the portal. Perhaps he wouldn't mind company."

Liz looked distinctly pleased. "And you?"

"I'll manage."

Actually, Avon had--at the last--promised to drop by her hotel room before leaving Chicago. For one last "goodbye." And say what you might about Avon's manners, morals, and general methods of doing business...

He _always_ kept his word.


End file.
